No, Giulia Farnese was a far cry from most noble mistresses who might confide in their maids but certainly wanted to hear no confessions in return—but I’d gotten used to her hilarity and her mad schemes, and now it seemed her latest mad scheme was to sneak all her maidservants into the Menagerie Ball. Robe makers descended on me with knotted measuring cords even as I protested, marking the length of my arms and the circumference of my wrists, while Giulia stood back with a critical eye. “The question is,” she continued, “what animal will suit you best? Pantisilea over there is going to make a splendid cat—”

“A cat in heat?” I couldn’t help saying, but Pantisilea just made a face at me as she folded a pair of our mistress’s sleeves. I’d never known a greater slut than Pantisilea, except maybe Sancha of Aragon. But everyone hated the Tart of Aragon with a passion, the spiteful bitch, and skinny cheerful Pantisilea was everybody’s favorite.

“We’ve got a gray beaded mask for her with whiskers and pointed ears,” Giulia continued, unruffled. “Pia, now, she’s going be a dear little blackbird; I’ve got a mask for her with a jet-beaded beak and a glorious crest of shiny black feathers . . .”

Over by the mirror, Pia bobbed a curtsy at her mistress and traded a shy little smile of her own.

“So,” Giulia concluded. “What shall we dress you as?”

I imagined my father’s roar of outrage. “Servants don’t mix with their masters.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, servants and masters mix constantly. How many maids in this house have Cesare and Juan slept with?”

“Me, for one,” Pantisilea volunteered. “You wouldn’t have time to wring out a shirt in the time it took the Duke of Gandia to finish, but Cardinal Borgia—well, let’s say he likes some very odd things!”

I coughed, remembering. Let’s just say Cesare Borgia happened on me once when he was bored, as well. He’d spread me out on a table, pinned my arms out and taken his time, and I’d been willing enough because he was beautiful, as beautiful as his brother Juan and far less of a lout. But I wouldn’t say I thought about it much when it was over, or yearned for it to happen again. Lying with Cesare Borgia had been a bit like watching an eclipse of the sun: strange and frightening and dark, if also rather exciting, and once is enough.

“Ugh, don’t tell me.” Giulia dismissed Cesare and whatever odd tastes he might have, looking at me. “Carmelina, don’t argue; you must come to the masquerade. How many banquets have you served in your life? Wouldn’t you like to eat the food for once, instead of just cooking it?”